


A Heart For Every Fate

by voleuse



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-11
Updated: 2004-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>What is this thing you humans call love?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heart For Every Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Set between 5.16 and 5.21, flashbacks set post-1.18 and 4.14. Title taken from Lord Byron's _To Thomas Moore_.

Illyria follows him home every night.

Wesley doesn't mind the company, really, but he suspects, in a corner of his mind, that he's going to develop another complex of some sort, and their relationship is beginning to resemble something of a codependent one.

At that thought, he laughs.

"Beginning."

He pours himself another glass of whiskey.

She watches him without comment.

*

 

"Files and Records told me of your past."

Wesley looks up from the files on his desk, but doesn't answer her. Instead, he watches as she picks her way into the room, step by precise step. If he waits long enough, she will say more, and perhaps those words will help him understand.

"Files and Records told me of the slayer called Faith."

"Ah." Wesley leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers. Wishes he had more than a flask of whiskey in his bottom desk drawer. "Yes. Faith."

"You cared for her, did you not?"

"Cared?" Wesley thinks back, to the last time he saw Faith. "Perhaps."

*

 

_Faith emerges from the bathroom in a tank top and sweats, briskly rubbing a towel over her still-dripping hair. He doesn't comment on the screaming he heard earlier, or on her bloodied knuckles. _

_He does, however, worry about the condition of his tile._

_After a quick perusal and clean-up of the damage, he takes a shower himself, letting the steam knead into his skin, letting him forget, for a moment, the fact that Angelus is still out there._

_When he's done, he's not surprised to find Faith in his bed, nor is he surprised that she's divested herself of her clothing. It's good form, however, to ask what's going on anyway._

_"Faith?"_

_He trusts she's bright enough to deduce the question from context._

_She rolls her eyes, rolls over the bed and grabs his wrist, pulling him closer than he intended to get, initially. "What do you think, Wes?"_

_She lunges up, her kiss more a bite than a caress, and sharp enough to draw a drop of blood from his lips. She falls back, laughing, and licks blood from the corner of her mouth._

_Wesley climbs onto the bed, grasps her wrists in turn, and brings her battered knuckles to his mouth. Takes one finger at a time between his lips, sucking at the faint hint of copper on her skin._

_Finally, she moans, and he drops her hands at the surrender. _

_Covers her body with his own, until she decides differently._

*

 

The fourth glass of brandy is the finest, Wesley thinks, but it's something only appreciated by himself and his pet ancient god.

"You're poisoning yourself," Illyria intones from behind him.

Wesley mentally amends his previous statement.

She (he can't help but think of Illyria as "she") stares at the glass intensely, but unlike a human being, she doesn't move to take it away.

"Why do you mourn this body so?" she asks. "You experienced no physical intimacy with it."

"Her," Wesley corrects. "I experienced no physical intimacy with..."

"Her." Illyria crouches, drawing her knees close to her chest as she regards Wesley.

He fancies she might pounce, if given an opportunity. She does.

"And Faith?"

Wesley looks up from the contents of his glass to stare at Illyria. If she were human, he would think her jealous. Her fixation on Faith is curious, to say the least.

"Why do you ask?"

Illyria remains silent for a heartbeat, then ten.

Wesley is patient.

Finally, she rises. "Your connection with her is less foreign to me than your connection to this body." She begins to pick her way about the room again, and Wesley follows her path. "I wish to understand."

Wesley returns his attention to his brandy, barely murmuring his reply.

"So do I."

*

 

_"I'll find out what I can at Wolfram &amp; Hart." Angel's gaze is full of warning as he leaves Wesley alone with Faith. _

_Wesley can't tell if the warning is for him, or for the woman that tortured him for the better part of an evening._

_"Stay out of trouble."_

_The door clicks shut behind him, and Wesley moves as far across from the room as physically possible, without climbing out the window. He expects Faith to laugh at him._

_She doesn't. _

_Instead, she curls into her armchair further, keeping her eyes down. _

_They stay like that for hours, until Wesley can't stand it anymore. He walks to the center of the room, walks until she looks at him directly, then stops._

_"You think you're a good person now?" He can't keep the contempt out of his voice. "You think you can change, just like that?"_

_Faith drops her eyes again, shakes her head, but he snarls, and she looks up at him again. _

_"Do you think we can be _friends_ after what you did?"_

_Faith stands._

_He manages not to step back. The deepest cut, a gouge across his right shoulder, throbs._

_"Hit me, Wesley."_

_He stills. _

_She steps forward. "Hit me." Another step, and another._

_She's within arms' reach._

_"Faith, I can't--"_

_"You can. You will." Her lips curl up in a sneer, and a little life comes back into her eyes. "Unless--"_

_Wesley doesn't hesitate._

_She stumbles back, hand pressed against her mouth. Her fingers come away bloody, and she laughs. Smiles at him. _

_"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" It's not really a question._

_She steps closer, regaining her ground. Wesley checks himself, determines he won't move. Won't give her the satisfaction._

_She steps closer, close enough to embrace._

_"You can never apologize for what you did to me," he says, and she breaks eye contact, looks down, then meets his eyes again. Leans forward, until her breasts rest against his chest, her hands brush his. _

_Her breath fans against his lips as she speaks. "I'm not going to." She rises on her toes, kisses him gently as a candle-flame. "Not now." Kisses him again._

_He tastes blood on his lips, feels her hands run over his arms, familiar in a way that frightens him, and he cracks._

_Leans down, grasps her shoulders, and kisses her back, using his teeth and tongue, and teeth again, until she moans. _

_Pushes her back, back, back into the armchair, until she falls back, thighs wide, and he fumbles as he unfastens and yanks her clothes over her head, off her hips, his fingers clumsy and insensitive._

_He still hasn't regained all the feeling in his arm. The doctors reassured him it would be temporary condition._

_She's writhing against the chair, grasping the arms so tightly they might splinter under her grip. Wesley kneels, awkwardly, and ducks his head between her thighs._

_It isn't long before her hips are bucking against Wesley, moans pouring from her throat like blood, and Wesley slows his machinations. Slows, stops, and edges away. _

_Faith wails, unfulfilled, and she stares at him, confused._

_He stands, posture straight and confident, despite his evident arousal. _

_"You can never apologize."_

_Faith nods, her right hand delving between her legs. She strokes quickly, brings herself to climax as Wesley watches._

_When her shuddering slows, he picks up her discarded clothes. Tosses them into her lap. _

_"Angel should be back soon," he says. "Get dressed."_

_He exits the room, and doesn't bother to bid her goodbye._

*

 

Illyria is directly in front of Wesley when he opens his eyes.

"You slept," she tells him. "You spoke her name."

Wesley clears his throat. "Did I?"

"What is it you feel for her?" Her expression is almost reproachful.

Wesley delays, refills his glass.

"Do you love her?"

He drinks, and doesn't answer.


End file.
